


Hooded in Red

by AlessNox



Series: Gods, Myths, and Fairytales [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coercion, Crime, Danger, F/M, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hiatus, Horror, Kidnapping, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus, Violence, WIP Big Bang, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead, but he isn't really. Molly Hooper is the only one of his old friends to still be in contact with him in hiding. The only link back to his old life, and now that link is in danger of being cut. </p><p>A story based on the tale of Little Red Riding Hood written for the Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 2 on Tumblr and AO3<br/>Completed for the WIP Big Bang 2017</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greg

The phrase "London Crime Wave!" was emblazoned across the front of the Times. Finally, they were moving on to other news. For weeks, it had seemed like every newspaper in the land had been engrossed with the drama of Sherlock Holmes' disgrace and suicide.

Then again, the death of England's foremost consulting detective probably had played some role in the extravagant number of thefts, murders, and robberies that had been infecting London of late. Molly picked up a copy of the newspaper, and placed it in her basket. Then she stepped back hitting someone and causing both of their baskets to fall and spill their contents all over the floor.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry about this!" Molly said reaching out a hand to stop a can of tomatoes from rolling away. "I didn't mean to hit you. I'm so clumsy."

"Molly? Molly Hooper?"

She looked up, finally noticing whose basket she'd knocked over. "Inspector Lestrade! I didn't see you there."

"It's Greg…call me Greg."

"Oh! Sorry...um... Greg."

Molly straightened, reaching out her hand to shake his, only to pull it back when she realized that she had just stepped on his bread.

"Sorry!" She bent over and picked up the squashed loaf placing it back in his basket. She could feel her cheeks warming. "I... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, it's good to see you too, Molly. I haven't seen you since the..."

"...since the funeral...yeah."

It had been a small affair, very private. They had used the excuse of avoiding media coverage to bury the body quickly. The memorial service had been awkward. Molly had been afraid to talk to anyone out of fear that she might reveal something. She had left early, unable to watch their sad faces any longer. John's had been particularly haunting. She shook her head trying to dispel the memory.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to...bring up bad memories. You did the autopsy. It must have been a shock."

"Yes," she said looking up at the man.

The inspector looked so different. He had been a dapper, handsome, gentleman with a lush head of frosted silver hair and a frequent rakish smile. Now, he looked tired and sad with hair so short that the stubby black hairs near his scalp showed through.

"You've cut your hair!"

"Yeah," he said running his hand through it. He reached into her basket then and took out a frozen dinner, placing it into his own. She had been too flustered to realize that it wasn't hers.

"Sorry," she said again. "Um… How are you?"

"Fine, I'm fine. And you?"

"Fine."

He nodded. She clasped her basket to her chest, and for a moment they just stared at each other. She started to sweat.

"So… how has work been?"

He sighed.

Suddenly Molly remembered that he probably would have felt the brunt of the scrutiny as the detective who had worked most closely with with Sherlock Holmes, a man who was now thought to be a fake.

"It's been challenging... frustrating really. There's the case review. That's been taking up much of my time, and we've been overrun with new cases. It's like everyone's gone a little crazy: Arson, kidnapping, theft, most of them are easily solvable, but some aren't. I just wish…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Both of them knew that he was wishing that Sherlock Holmes was still around.

"Actually, I've been meaning to get in touch with you. It's lucky I ran into you like this."

"Lucky?" she giggled nervously. "Not quite so lucky for your bread." Then she flushed, embarrassed at her stupid joke.

"Well... there's this case. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the wounds on the victims backs. They look like they were made with a metal rod, but I'm not so sure. I thought that if anyone would know, it would be you. Sherlock always trusted your opinion, and he was the best… that is… despite what the news says..."

"I don't mind!" Molly said enthusiastically. "I don't mind answering your questions. Come by the morgue, anytime."

Greg smiled. It changed the whole shape of his face. "Thank you, Molly. It's just... It's hard to talk to people at work about...these things. I'm glad to know that _you_ understand."

"I do. Of course I do."

"I would have called before, it's just I don't… that is... I was wondering if I could get your number?"

Molly stared blankly back at him.

"Or if you prefer, I can give you my number. I'm not hitting on you. It's just...when I have questions... if you have time. Have you taken up smoking?"

"What?"

His eyes were focused on the nicotine patches in her basket.

"Oh they're not for me," she said, only then realizing that she couldn't say who they really were for. "They're for my... Grandmother."

"Your grandmother?" Greg said. "Patches aren't very good for old skin, I hear."

"Oh, Grandmum's too set in her ways to stop now," Molly said grinning manically. "I promised to drive out and give them to her tonight, so sorry, but I have to go. Goodbye Greg." She waved, and then strode toward the checkout trying to escape without being too rude or too obvious. She seemed to be failing at both.

"I was leaving too," he said following her. "Now that I've got my dinner back." He grinned, taking his place, irritatingly, right behind her in the queue.

Molly turned away from him, trying to hide her basket from his gaze. She adjusted the newspaper to cover her purchases only then realizing that the headline was a sort of accusation for a policeman.

"So, you'll be driving around town alone tonight?" he asked looking down at the paper in her basket, before returning his gaze to her flushed face. "You should be careful. The commissioner has issued a voluntary curfew. If you have to be out late, then you need to watch out for yourself."

Molly rolled her eyes, "I'm a grown woman. I'll be in my car the entire time. What could possibly happen to me?"

"Hopefully nothing," he said. "Even so, I suggest that you go straight to your grandmother's and then straight home. The streets of London are no place for any person to be out alone at night these days."

"You sound like my dad," she said smiling honestly for once. "He was always afraid that something bad would happen to me, but it never has."

"I'm glad to hear it. Even so, It pays to be careful. Don't stay out alone at night. Go there and back without stopping."

The checker started to run her things through. She placed them in her bag, paying quickly in an effort to get away. "I'll be careful," she said with a smile. Then she turned and walked out as quickly as she could without appearing to be running away. She didn't want to be caught in a lie. Both of Molly's grandmums were dead and had been for years.

She walked across the lot and climbed into her little blue mini, starting the car and pulling away before he could come out of the store. Then she drove toward some of the darkest streets in the city. The very kinds of places that Greg had warned her against.


	2. A visit to Grandmum

In Molly Hooper's opinion, the problem with Sherlock Holmes being dead was that for a dead man he certainly needed a lot of stuff. She glanced over at her shopping bags to discover that other than the cat food and some bottled water, everything else that she'd bought was for him.

Molly hadn't expected to meet Greg Lestrade at the grocery. She wasn't a very good liar, and she had been mortally afraid that he would look at her and know everything. Sherlock had grilled it into her that absolutely no one must know that he was still alive. She had done okay, so far, but when someone said straight out that they needed him, It was hard for her to stay silent.

She turned off of the main road, winding through a series of back streets before pulling into a dark alley to park beneath a broken streetlight. She turned off the engine and waited. The knock on her car door startled her even though she was expecting it. Molly rolled down the window to see a grizzled brown face with a large gray beard.

"Hello Joe," she said, "Two cans of cashews and a bag of jelly babies, just as we agreed."

Joe reached through the window and took the bag looking inside and smiling before taking the other items that she passed to him. His white hair made him look very old, but his hands told her that he was no more than forty. She'd seen enough of them in the morgue to be able to tell age by the fat deposits in the skin.

"There's milk in that, so don't dawdle."

He nodded, saying loudly "Thank you, Miss. Very generous of you!" He even tipped his cap at her, the movement distracting from the note that he slipped into her hand before turning away. She rolled the window up before opening it. Looking around to make sure that no one was watching her as she read:

 **2 dozen** **Helianthus** **annuus** **. Tonight.**

Sunflowers? He wanted sunflowers this time of night?

It was late, and her favorite show was coming on the telly in an hour. It was hard enough working full days at the morgue without having to run Sherlock's errands at night. Surely he could wait till morning for a few flowers, couldn't he?

On the other hand, buying the flowers would mean going to see him in person. She could spend the evening with him instead of sitting alone in her apartment with only her cat, Toby, for company. Sherlock was demanding and irritating at times, but somehow seeing his handsome face made all the trouble she'd gone through seem worthwhile.

Molly backed out of the alley, and drove slowly down the mostly deserted streets looking for a flower shop. This wasn't really the kind of neighborhood to find such a store, so she drove around and around looking at the mostly closed buisinesses. She was just about to give up when she spotted one. The sign was old and faded. A dusty glass window showed a display of what looked like funeral wreaths. She parked the car and stepped out, rushing up the stairs to try the door. It was locked.

She knocked on the glass, but no one answered despite the fact that the light was on. She peered through the window, but in the end, she had to admit defeat. Turning back to face the street, she saw her path blocked by a man in a red hoodie. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at her.

Where had he come from? The street was as deserted now as it had been when she had stopped the car here moments ago. She hadn't heard another car, and none of the other buildings showed signs of life. It was as if he had appeared by magic.

He stood perfectly still underneath the flickering street lamp, his hands hidden in his pockets. The light streaming from the dirty store window cast a shadow on his face that hid his eyes from view.

Molly watched a car pass by on a side street, the Doppler shifted sound of its passage rang out clear, emphasizing just how empty the streets were. There was no one else in sight, and the only way back to her car was to walk past the man.

"Hello," Molly said, unable to keep her voice from cracking.

The man tilted his head to stare up at her, and she could finally see his eyes. They were pale brown, almost gold.

"Lookin' for flowers, miss?" the young man asked pulling off his hood to reveal high cheekbones and straight raven black hair. His golden eyes glowed bright in the dim light.

"Um, yes," Molly said, "for my grandmother. It's her birthday. I left it a bit late, but I'd really like to get some tonight. You don't know of a place that sells flowers that is still open, do you?"

The man didn't smile. He looked her down and up. His face without expression as he appraised her. "I might know of someplace," The man said. His hands back in his pockets. "What kind of flowers do you need?"

"Sunflowers."

"Sunflowers. Nice. Very pretty. It might help me to suggest a place if I knew where you were going. Does your grandmother live nearby?"

"She lives near the river, about three miles that way. Do you know of any places along the way?"

The man shook his head slowly side to side. "Not between here and the river, but there is a twenty four hour flower shop that I know of. It's a bit of a drive, but they will definitely have what you are looking for."

"Really, are you sure?"

"I'm certain. You see, I'm a bit of a pro at finding things. Here's the address," he said reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a pen and a pad of paper. He wrote the address down, then held the sheet out to her.

Molly walked down the steps toward him and reached out, taking the note with a shaking hand. The man stared down at her. His golden brown eyes following her with curiosity as she stepped around him, pulling her keys out of her pocket and unlocking the door.

"Thank you," she said, quickly climbing into the car, and closing and locking the door between her and the man who was standing on the curb watching her still. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and it was only after she pulled away that she started to breathe again. When she looked into the rear view mirror, the man was gone.

* * *

The building where Sherlock was hiding out was situated on a lesser used street abutting the river. Once, it had been a textile mill, but decades ago it had been converted into luxury flats, that later became a home for the elderly before falling completely into disrepair. The building was abandoned now, except for one wing which still had water and electricity, making it a convenient hide out.

The flower shop had been everything that the man had said it would be. It was attached to a warehouse, and trucks of plants kept arriving throughout the night. She had bought the sunflowers, and violets, and roses as well. She'd spent much more time there than she had expected to, so that it was well after midnight by the time that she arrived.

She drove into the empty lot, through a gate bearing a large sign reading KEEP OUT! She parked beside a scrawny tree which had thrust its head up through a gap in the broken pavement. Turning off her lights, she took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She could see the lights of the city reflected on the surface of the water. She pulled out her phone to check the time, but as soon as she opened it, the screen went dark.

Cursing aloud, she plugged the phone into the car charger and tossed it down onto the seat, but it bounced and landed on the floorboard. She left it there, along with her bag of cat food, and walked across the lot to the door. She entered, quickly closing the door behind her so that the light wouldn't be seen from the street. The industrial kitchen had been painted in shades of aqua blue and ivory, but years of cooking and neglect had caused the walls to stain and the paint to peel. She saw the bags of groceries that she had bought laid out on one of the stainless steel tables. Frowning, she picked up the milk and put it in the nearby refrigerator.

"Sherlock!" she called, but no one answered.

She placed the flowers on the table and walked through the kitchen, opening the door to peek into a dark, deserted hallway. The light spilling out through the door didn't illuminate much beyond the section of hall that she was standing in. To her right, the closed doors of a dozen abandoned rooms peeled off. To her left, a pale light was coming from a room at the end of the hall.

She turned left and walked toward the light, pushing aside a half-open door to enter an empty recreation room. It was as large as a gymnasium, with a low roof, and a row of small windows that faced toward the river. Folding tables sat at odd angles throughout the room, deserted by the white metal chairs that should have surrounded them. The chairs were stacked in rows against the wall near a torn poster advertising vacation trips to Italy. One broken chair lay like a dead thing under a flickering fluorescent light. The plastic panel of another light hung open revealing the gap where the bulbs should have been. Across the room, where the ordered lines of nonworking lights ended at a row of dark windows, a man stood in front of a yellow floor lamp. The warm glow of its bulb cast a circle on the linoleum floor interrupted only by his dark silhouette.

"Sherlock," Molly said rushing toward him. "I brought the flowers you asked for."

His thin figure cast a long shadow. She stepped onto the edge of it and stopped.

"Sherlock," she said walking forward more slowly. "You forgot to put up the milk again."

The shadow covered her almost completely now. He still faced away from her. She walked up behind him reaching out to touch his back, then she hesitated, lowering her arm to her side. "Are you losing weight again? You should eat more. That coat is hanging off of your bones."

He was so still.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright? Are you… shorter than I remember?"

The man in the coat turned to face her then. He was wearing a paper mask printed with the image of Sherlock's face. Molly froze watching as he slowly removed the mask to reveal high cheekbones and golden brown eyes. It was the man that she had seen on the street. The man in the red hoodie. He dropped the mask at his feet and stared at her without smiling.

"Where is Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Funny," the man said, his voice smooth, deep, and menacing. "That's exactly the question that I was going to ask you, Miss Molly Hooper."

Molly sucked in a breath and stepped back. Then she turned, and began to run across the room. Her footsteps echoed loudly off the walls, but the softer echo of his trainer-clad feet had a faster rhythm. She sped up, her heart and lungs pounding, but before she could reach the door, her feet slipped out from under her and she fell forward only to be caught by strong arms that pulled her back against the man's hard chest. He turned her around so that she was looking straight into his golden eyes as he pulled out a knife and placed its sharp point against the skin of her neck. Only then did his lips turn up into a smile.


	3. The Wolf

Molly was tied to one of the cheap folding chairs by plastic twine. She struggled to free herself. Simultaneously annoyed at the bonds and happy that her mouth wasn't filled with a gag.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing yet," he said as he arranged a table to be perpendicular to the distant door. He placed a folding chair on either side of it, then reconsidered, pulling away a chair before standing back and stroking his chin.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Setting the stage."

He moved the chair back beside the floor lamp which was as tall as a man, and made of delicate brass. It was too new to have been abandoned in this old place. The man must have brought it with him. She sighed, suddenly realizing that this man, like Sherlock, also enjoyed drama.

"How did you find this place? Did you follow Joe?"

"Is Joe the bearded man?" he asked. "I tried, but he ran off. I was able to find him again though using your directions. _'near the river, about three miles that way'_. Didn't your parents ever tell you that you shouldn't talk to strangers?"

Molly tugged at the cords tying her feet, but they didn't budge. "Where is Joe now?" she asked.

"Right there," the man said hooking his thumb to the right. Molly turned and looked over her shoulder into the darkness at what she had thought was an old bit of carpet. It was wearing boots. Her eyes scanned across the floor until she saw…a mouth open in a silent scream, vacant eyes staring at nothing, an angled gash across his neck stained with dried blood.

Joe was dead.

Molly screamed. She tugged harder against the restraints, sliding her chair across the floor in an effort to get away. The man turned toward her. His face was placid, as if nothing was wrong. "Please, calm yourself," he said.

She kicked harder, almost overturning the chair in her efforts to loosen herself from her bonds. He walked over and put his foot on the base of the chair to keep it from flipping. Then he took her chin in his gloved hand and turned her face toward his.

"Shhhhh! It's nothing to worry about. He's dead now." His words only seemed to make her struggle more. "I suppose that it is a bit disturbing. You knew him didn't you?"

Molly was breathing very heavily now. Her eyes wide as she tried to pull away from the man. He touched her lips with his finger, shushing her like a child. Then he reached into his coat to pull out a red cloth bag. She stilled, afraid of what he might be about to do.

"I know. It's disturbing looking into the face of death. I'll just cover it up, shall I?"

He let go of her chin and walked over to Joe's body. He lifted the dead man's shoulders pulling the cloth sack over the top of his head so that the red bag obscured the face entirely. Then he returned to kneel at her side.

"Better, right? It used to annoy me too, but you can't see anything now." He stroked her hair once before rising to his feet and going back to adjust the furniture.

Molly turned and looked down at the body hooded in red. She shuddered.

He was wrong about her. It wasn't the sight of a dead body that scared her. She was around the dead all day at work. The thing that had shocked her so badly that her tongue was paralyzed within her mouth, was that only hours ago, that body had been a man who had liked cashews and jelly babies, and who pretended to be older to make more money while begging. Now he would end up as just another John Doe body that had been dumped in an abandoned building. Would she?

The man was finally happy with his arrangement. He had placed a high backed chair next to his brass floor lamp. Beside it was a small round table. A few body lengths away from this, about halfway between the lamp and the chair where she was tied, there sat a simple folding chair facing them.

She tried to concentrate on the man and his movements but her eyes kept being drawn toward the dark corner of the room where Joe's body lay. She tried to keep from looking, but her head kept turning in that direction to stare at the lump with the red sack covering his head. She was almost grateful when the man distracted her by pulling out a large silver hand gun and pointing it at her. She stared into the barrel. Was that a silencer? Unnecessary. There was no one near enough to hear a gunshot. No one had heard her scream, after all.

The man smiled faintly at Molly's expression and shook his head "Don't worry my dear. I don't want you dead, and I doubt very much that he'll try anything if it means your getting hurt. Isn't that right, Mr Holmes?"

Molly whipped her head around. In the shadow of the doorway she saw a familiar shape: The dramatic flair of his coat, the soft curl of his hair, the wideness of his shoulders, his tall thin frame, it made her heart beat faster just to look at him. Even in the dim light she knew it was definitely Sherlock. How had she possibly confused them before? He strode slowly toward them, hands in his pockets. His cheekbones standing out sharply in the uneven light.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes. How pleasant to see you alive again."

"Again? I don't remember meeting you before."

"We've never officially been introduced, although I was present at your meeting with James Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised at the mention of the name. "At the pool? You were on the balcony."

"Yes. I pointed my little red dot straight at your forehead," he said motioning with his left pointer finger. The gun in his right hand stayed firmly pointed at her head. "So believe me when I say that I am a very good shot, and she is much closer to me now than you were then."

Sherlock glanced quickly at Molly then focused back on the man. "You haven't told me who you are?"

"I am known as 'The Engineer'."

"Ah!" Sherlock said lifting his chin.

"You've heard of me? Good. Please take a seat, we have many things to discuss."

"I would prefer to stand."

"Suit yourself," he said lowering himself into his armchair, his gun still pointing at Molly.

Sherlock approached the folding chair. He started to walk toward Molly, but stopped when the man's grip tightened on his gun.

"I take it that you want revenge for James Moriarty's death?"

The man smiled. "Revenge was more James' gig. It is not an appropriate goal for _Moriarty_."

"Moriarty?"

"You must know by now that Moriarty is more than just _one man_."

"He looked like _one man_ to me when I watched him die."

"Ah yes, that. Strange choice of retirement plan, but then, James always was one for the unique answer. That's what made him so valuable to us, his creativity."

"To us? Who are you? His family?"

The Engineer laughed. "Hardly. _Moriarty_ is now, and has been for several years, an organization. James Moriarty designed it to survive long after his death. It was to be his legacy."

"And is that why you are here, to preserve his legacy?"

"Not in the way that you are thinking. Won't you sit down? My arm is getting tired."

"You could always let her go."

The engineer smirked. "How sweet. James mentioned that you were sweet." He cocked the lever on the gun. His face turning cold. "I, however, am not."

Sherlock stepped forward then, and sat in the chair.

"Thank you," The Engineer said lowering the gun. He crossed his legs and propped his wrist on his knee, the gun still pointed in Molly's direction. "This is so much nicer, isn't it? You and I having a simple chat."

"Can we get on with it then? Tell me about this...Moriarty."

"Certainly. You see, James Moriarty used to work primarily alone on a kind of... consultant basis, but somewhere along the line, he got the idea to make an organization of his own. I think that he started it as a lark really. Just a bit of fun. But he was clever, and it grew into something much bigger than himself."

"I find it funny thinking of James Moriarty as a manager in an office."

"I agree that his management style was a bit... simplistic. It was all carrot and stick with him. You remember? ' _I'll make you rich_ ' or ' _I'll turn you into shoes_ ', and that temper!" he shook his head. "And yet, his methods were surprisingly effective. We made quite a bit of money before his _infatuation_ got in the way."

"By _infatuation_ , I suppose that you mean me."

"Yes," he said, "He was not entirely stable, but we accepted his little eccentricities because he made us all very, very rich."

"So what is this about, if not revenge?"

The Engineer sat back in his chair and smiled, "Good! Thank you for taking your hand off of the gun in your pocket. I appreciate that. I'll follow suit." He put the safety on the gun in his hand, and placed it down on a small table beside his chair. "The reason that I'm talking to you, is because I'm thinking of retiring."

"I can help you with that."

The man's mouth turned up in a smile although his eyes stayed hard. "No, I don't plan to go out the way James did. I am much more traditional. I want enough money to live comfortably into old age, and time to pursue other hobbies."

"And how much money do you need to be comfortable?"

"I am a modest man. I think that I could be happy with… say...few billion."

"A few billion pounds? Is that all?"

"I wouldn't expect an ascetic like you to understand, but as one quite familiar with the cost of things, I wouldn't want to underbid myself."

"And how do you expect to get such money? I'm sure you are aware that I am not a rich man."

"I know. What I want is more of a … working arrangement. You see, after Moriarty's death, there has been a bit of a problem with the chain of command. Moran is officially the leader now."

"Lord Moran? Isn't he in Parliament?"

"No, not him. His little brother, Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"I see. Colonel Moran is currently in charge, but _you_ want to be leader, right?"

"Wrong. I prefer to leave that kind of attention to others."

"Then what is the problem?"

"The problem is that Sebastian Moran does not have the requisite skills to replace James Moriarty. To be blunt, he is a moron. He may be the best shot in the Western hemisphere, but as a strategist, he is pathetic. I need someone who can think to help me raise the money that I need for my retirement."

"And what makes you think that I would help you?"

"Because I have something that you want."

"What? Do you mean her?" Sherlock sneered.

"Not just her. You see, James never liked to have to deal with the details of transactions. He left those to me. I kept track of all of the little cogs and wheels that made his engine go."

"And that interests me how?"

"Because I know what you're after, Mr Holmes. It's really quite touching. You're not at all like your image in the press."

"The press says I'm a fake."

"Like I said, you are not at all like your image. James Moriarty told me, that next to him, you were the most creative criminal mind on the planet, or that you would be if you could ever free yourself from the constraints of human morality. It was his deepest wish to free you from such bonds, and that is why he planned to kill your dearest friends."

"It wasn't them he wanted. He planned to kill me."

"Oh no. I don't mean to say that there wasn't a certain, romantic aspect to it. I'm sure that he would have been pleased if you had both died together on that roof like Romeo and Juliet, but that wasn't his plan. He made a puzzle specifically for you to solve. He planted assassins to kill your three closest friends. His hope was that you would either fail to stop them, and finally be unencumbered by emotional bonds, or that in your effort to stop the assassins you would become a murderer and thus realize that human life is not so precious as you had assumed."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his hands on his knees. "None of this tells me what I need you for."

"James was right. You are fun to talk to." the man said smiling. "You need me, Mr. Holmes, because your friends will never be safe until you destroy Moriarty's organization, and you will not be able to dismantle _Moriarty_ without my help."

"Why would you help me destroy your own organization?"

"I told you. My goal is retirement. Once I've got my funds, I don't care what happens to the rest of it. In fact, I would be happy to watch it all burn to ash. I've been watching you feeling around, picking at the edges of it. Once I realized that you must be alive, I followed Miss Hooper, until she led me to you."

"Logical, but pointless. Miss Hooper means nothing to me. James Moriarty knew her intimately, but he didn't even think it worth the effort of setting an assassin on her."

"True, but there are other assassins simply waiting to hear that you are alive."

"You know who they are?"

"No, but I know virtually every person in Moriarty's organization, and how they are related. I can help you bring them down, after I've made my profit, that is."

"But you told me who leads the organization. I could just kill Sebastian Moran. Then my friends would be safe."

The man shook his head slowly from side to side. "It doesn't work that way. Moriarty was not a trusting man. Even after his death he has his ways of making people do what he wants. His standing orders say that you were to jump to your death, and if you did not die, then your friends were to be killed immediately. Do you honestly believe that he could not find a way to guarantee that his will would be carried out? James Moriarty died for _you_. He planned to torment you throughout eternity. You could destroy ninety percent of his organization, and the last ten percent would make sure that his will was carried out. No, Mr Holmes, without me, you will never be able to save your friends."

"So you want me to work for you? Replace Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Haven't you noticed. There is unrest everywhere, and I am ill-equipped to solve the problem that is gripping London at this time."

"The crime wave?"

"Yes, the crime wave."

"Natives getting restless are they?"

"Not just the natives. After James Moriarty's oh so public death, a power vacuum has opened up. People from all over the world are coming in to fill it, and it is causing chaos. We need to crack down on these usurpers. Destroy the riff-raff attempting to claim a part of the market. You'll be fighting crime again. Destroying evil doers. Protecting the common man!"

"So that you can hurt them yourself." Sherlock climbed to his feet. "This has been very informative, but no. I don't think that's what I want to do with my life."

The Engineer raised his gun toward Molly again, and Sherlock froze. "Shall we test the truth of your statement that Miss Hooper means nothing to you?"

Before he could even unlatch the safety, there was a loud cracking sound. Molly looked up and saw a dark crack traveling across the ceiling. She cried out in an alarm that was quickly muffled when Sherlock knocked her and the chair on its side. He covered her body as large chunks of plaster and wood rained down on them, followed by water that splashed them with a sound like a rushing wind.

Molly coughed. Her face was pressed up against the wool of Sherlock's coat. Her ankle hurt. She looked down to find the edge of a beam jutting against it. Sherlock reached around her, cutting her bonds with a knife. Then he stood up, tossing chunks of plaster off of his back as he helped her to her feet.

"Hurry!" he whispered, pulling her toward the door. She tried to walk, but she fell. He helped her up, wrapping his arm around her waist and supporting her as they hobbled toward the exit. They only needed to get out of the building. Her car was just outside. Her keys were in her pocket?

They stepped over plaster and metal, avoiding furniture and broken pipes. The lights were off, but the floor lamp miraculously was still glowing.

She took a step, and then another, willing herself to go faster. They were almost to the door when, looking back, she saw the barrel of a gun pointing toward them.

"Sherlock!" she screamed dropping to one knee. She heard a whooshing sound, and watched as Sherlock fell to the floor. She rolled him over onto his back and brushed aside his coat, feeling around until she found where the bullet had struck his thigh. It had gone right through. She pressed down on the wound to stop the flow, and froze when The Engineer reached them, raising his gun to point at Sherlock's face. He narrowed his eyes, and then moved the gun to rest against Molly's skull.

"Take your hands away from that gun, Mr Holmes, unless you wish to see her brains spread all over the walls."

Sherlock pulled his hands from his pockets, lifting them up in front of him. They were both well and truly caught.


	4. Belly of the Beast

Now that Sherlock was sleeping, Molly was finally able to breathe again.

She had been the one to stop the bleeding in the back of a bouncing van while the others sat around indifferent, and it had been up to her to find a way to bandage the wound with only the materials available to her in the small, dark room they'd left them in. She'd torn the sheets into strips to make bandages, calling more upon her experience of world war one television dramas than her actual medical training. They were rubbish bandages, and they leaked, but it was the best that she could do.

She'd been trained in emergency medicine, but she'd rarely had the need to use it. Most of the people that she spent time with were already dead. And notwithstanding the time with the Buddist monk with hypothermia, they rarely ever needed reviving.

They were in what looked to have been a storeroom. There was a bed, a couch, a desk, and a chair. A door led to a small room with a sink, toilet, and bathtub. She washed her bloody hands in the sink and considered whether she'd be able to clean the blood out of her jumper.

Molly hated real-time medicine. That was part of the reason that she had gone into forensics. She'd been trained as a surgeon, but the thought of people depending on her to save them made her stomach clench. She had never expected to be kidnapped by a mad associate of her old psychopathic ex-boyfriend, with the man that she thought she might be in love with, half-naked and possibly dying in the next room. She looked through the open door at his still body preferring to think of him as asleep rather than unconscious.

She was startled by the sound of the door opening in the next room as two large men came in and walked toward Sherlock. She rushed out, placing herself between Sherlock and the tallest one. She was oddly pleased at the shocked expression the guard gave her when challenged by a small woman covered with blood. She stepped forward and the man stepped back.

"He needs medical help. There must be someone in charge. Take me to him, now!" She glared at the man, trying her best to hold onto her anger because her next impulse was to cry.

After a tense few seconds, the man gestured toward the door. She left the room without looking back.

The door led to a small brown cellar room. They led her up a narrow stair, into a grander hall with white textured wallpaper and a long red carpet that ran down the length of the hall like a tongue. She took a deep breath and tried to remember that Sherlock needed her help.

Sherlock!

He had come to her that night, just as she was heading home. She turned off the light, and then jumped when she heard him speak. The lab was dim, and his outline was all she could see at first. Then she saw his eyes. She had never seen them so soft, so worried.

He approached her slowly. He moved like an animal on the hunt. Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to concentrate to hear his words because his physical presence was so overwhelming. He said that he was going to die.

Until that moment, she had not thought of the possibility that Sherlock might leave. She hadn't realized how much she looked forward to seeing him peaking up from behind a lab bench, or trying to sweet talk her into letting him take home a few body parts.

She'd asked him "What do you need?" And Sherlock had looked straight down into her eyes and said, _"You."_

It had been the single most erotic moment of her life.

Sherlock was perfect. He was tall and handsome. He understood forensics. He was someone she could talk to, someone smart. He had trusted her with his life, and she wouldn't let him die in that dark room.

She came to an intricately carved red door. It led into an immense dining room. The floor was polished white marble, the walls lined with dark wooden panels. Chandeliers of clear glass hung overhead, their tips pointing down like teeth. The majority of the room was an empty expanse of floor. It was more ballroom than a dining room, but a long table of dark Mahogany wood sat at the far side of the room next to a cold, stone fireplace. A shelf over the fireplace was piled high with steaming silver chafing dishes attended by a dark-haired woman in a blue dress who stared across the room watching her, as did the man sitting at the head of the table. She could see the yellow glow of his eyes even at this distance. It was The Engineer.

"Ivana, a robe," he said to the servant who quickly disappeared into a closet, returning moments later with a terry cloth robe and slippers.

The guard gestured for Molly to walk forward, and she did, limping toward the table. Every step that she took into the cavernous room made her feel smaller, as if she were being swallowed.

The woman in blue met her half-way, sliding the white robe over her clothes, adjusting her collar, and then tying it so that the blood was completely covered. Then she bent down and removed Molly's sensible brown shoes from her feet. Only then did Molly notice how they too were stained dark red. She took the soiled clothes and scurried away leaving Molly to continue her voyage toward the man who today wore a conservative black suit. She'd liked him better in the hoodie.

The woman approached her again near the table, thrusting a silver dish full of water at her. Molly stared at the bowl, wondering if she should drink it, before realizing she was meant to wash her hands in it.

She rinsed her hands, taking a moment to calm herself by focusing on the sound of dripping water. The bottom of the basin reflected her worried face and disheveled hair. She touched the water, distorting the image as she wet her fingertips. Then she ran her fingers through her hair to set them in place, before drying her hands with a towel.

The servant, Ivana, pulled out a chair for her, and then took the bowl away. The man ignored them, casually eating his fish.

"Sit down, Miss Hooper. Have a bite to eat. Ivana! Make Miss Hooper a plate."

"I don't want..."

"Please try some. It'll go to waste if you don't."

Molly felt unsure. The civility of the man after the brutal scene in the warehouse paralyzed her. The memory of blood and his gun to her head didn't mesh with this ballroom. It all felt a bit unreal… almost fairytale.

Ivana returned with a plate of steaming food which she placed in front of Molly who suddenly realized that she was ravenously hungry. She stared down at what appeared to be a full English breakfast.

"Go ahead," the man said wiping his mouth. "I have a dietitian. No need to worry about your health. I promise it's not poisoned."

She clenched her fist, remembering her anger and frustration."You shot my friend and kidnapped me. Why should I trust your word?"

"Really, Miss Hooper. If I wanted to drug you, I would simply have it done. I don't need to use subterfuge. Please, eat. Enjoy your meal."

"I didn't come here to eat. I came to talk to you."

"We can do both. My chef is excellent, and I know you must be hungry."

Molly tried to keep up the fire that she had felt when she'd challenged the guard down in the basement, but the cold expanse of this room seemed to suck it out her. She picked up a fork and started eating. The potatoes were remarkably good, buttery with a hint of dill. She felt as if she hadn't eaten in days.

"I hope that you are mending well." The man said from across the long length of the table. "You'll need new clothes. Other than that, I hope your room is adequate. Do you have everything that you need?"

"No. It is not adequate, and I do not have everything I need," she said. "Sherlock needs a doctor."

"I was under the impression that you were one."

"I am, but I can't treat a gunshot wound with no medical supplies or equipment."

"My men tell me that you already have."

"Then your men are idiots. I was able to stop the bleeding, but there could be infection, not to mention shock from the pain. He could lose his leg. He could die!"

"So, what do you want?"

"We want our freedom."

The man laughed. The sound echoing loud off the roof and floor. "Your freedom? Ms Hooper, you are refreshing."

"This isn't a laughing matter. Sherlock needs to be taken to a hospital."

"That's out of the question."

"Out of the question? He is hurt and in considerable pain. He may not survive under these conditions. He needs pain medicine. He needs blood. He _needs_ a hospital."

"No"

"No? You can't just disregard a gunshot wound. I thought you were supposed to be smart. You said that you needed him, but you can't even keep him well. What kind of an incompetent planner are you anyway? Take us to a hospital now!"

"Quiet!" he yelled pounding the table with his palm as the sharp cry rang off of the walls. Ivana crouched back against the wall, and Molly froze, watching as the man narrowed his eyes at her. "Miss Hooper, you are not to use that tone with me again. Do you understand?"

Molly bowed her head. The bravery that had filled her just moments before having suddenly fled. Molly felt like a mouse.

Although, she was not typically an outgoing person, Molly resented it when people called her mousy. She had made it through medical school with high honors, and had got her post on merit. She was where she was at her age because she was just that much better than the others at her job. She was an independent woman who was confident in her work. Why then did men like The Engineer, and Sherlock for that matter, have the power to turn her into a shrinking, crouching mouse?

She took a bite in silence.

The man looked at her saying, "I do not make statements frivolously or without consideration. You say you want freedom, but I honestly don't believe that it would do you any good at this point. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized Sherlock Holmes. It was only a matter of time before someone realized that he was still alive. Luckily, I got there first."

"Luckily?"

"Yes, luckily. If someone else had noticed him, then word would have got to Moran. He has such a simple mind. It's all. Bang, Bang. Problem solved. He would have shot him."

" _You_ shot him."

"But I didn't kill him."

"How can you congratulate yourself on saving Sherlock Holmes when he is alone and possibly dying downstairs?"

"You underestimate your skills, Miss Hooper."

"Even I can't work without tools. What happens to your great plan to retire, or whatever it was that you said you wanted, if he dies? This entire enterprise is a failure. He needs proper medicines. He needs proper care." The man glared at her, and she clenched the knife that she had concealed beneath the table, just in case. He took another bite.

"I do see your point. I have work today, but I will see to your request. Don't worry. It's already stored up here." He pointed at his forehead, then he wiped his mouth before placing the cloth down on the table beside his plate. "Take your time, eat as much as you like. We will dine again tomorrow when you have something more appropriate to wear. Good day, Miss Hooper."

The man rose to his feet. She watched him cross the long floor and exit the room. The door closed behind him, leaving her at the table alone and angry at herself. She should have done more, found a way to convince him to get them to a hospital. She _was_ a mouse. If her cat Toby were here, he would have eaten her.

"Toby! Oh my! No one fed him last night!" she said, her voice echoing in the near empty room. She looked up to see Ivana nervously staring at her. But it was too late to make any more demands. The Engineer was gone.


	5. Sherlock

She entered the room to find Sherlock tossing from side to side. She rushed in, sat on the side of the bed, and held him still.

"John, John," he cried eyes half-closed.

"Sherlock...it's me, Molly."

"Molly? Where's John?"

"He's back in Baker Street. Don't you remember? He thinks you're dead. Sherlock, do you remember getting shot?"

"Of course I remember getting shot, Molly, I have a big bloody hole in my thigh! I don't think I'd forget that."

Molly sighed in relief. "Oh good. For a moment there, I thought… it doesn't matter. How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel? Do you have any morphine? I _need_ morphine!"

"I'm doing what I can. The Engineer said that he would give me some."

"The Engineer? What did he say? No wait, first tell me… where are we?"

"We are in a basement room."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can see that, Molly. I mean are we still in London?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know! How can you not know?"

"I was busy saving your life. I didn't stop to look at the scenery."

Sherlock arched his back, all of his muscles tightening. Molly pressed down on his hip to keep him from unwinding the bandages. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was quieter, more uncertain.

"Am I going to die, Molly? Because I didn't expect to die like this."

"You're not going to die, Sherlock."

"I just thought that when I died Moriarty would be here, staring down at me.

"James Moriarty is dead."

"Is he? He could have faked it. Irene did. I did."

"I saw his body, Sherlock. I know it was him."

"But Irene..."

"Sherlock, I know bodies. The man that died on the roof of Bart's Hospital was the same man who I knew as Jim. The same man you told me was James Moriarty. I know it was him, and I know he is dead. You can trust me on that."

"But he's clever. He could fool you."

"No, he could not. It's my job, Sherlock. You only glanced at Irene's body. I did a full autopsy on Jim. There were things I saw… no matter. Sherlock, don't worry about James Moriarty. He's gone, And if you ever doubt that, you can just ask me, and I'll tell you again."

"But what if he kills you before I get a chance to ask?"

The door opened then, and Molly looked up to see two men carrying in a large metal chest. They dropped it on the desk and left. It was white with a red cross on the side, and it looked like it had been ripped out of an ambulance. It probably had. Inside, she found an assortment of medical supplies. She riffled through and found a sedative. She gave it to Sherlock, and then began searching for the things that she would need to stitch up the wound and rebandage it. She pulled out a bag of plasma and laid it aside. She would find a way to hang it up, later.

Sherlock moaned again, just as she found a bottle of morphine. She took a needle and injected a small amount near the wound.

"Molly..." he muttered turning as if to get up, but she held him down with one hand on his hip keeping him from thrashing open his bandages.

"No one saw us get captured. No one saw them take us away, did they?"

"No… I don't think so. No one knows where we are. Everyone thinks you're dead, and me… I … I don't have anyone left to worry about what happens to me."

"Good." Sherlock said, "That means they're safe, John and the others. John..."

His voice trailed off then as the sedative kicked in. Molly held him still until his breathing steadied. Then she rose to her feet and went back to the chest. She pulled out an absorbent pad to put below him and continued her preparations to stitch his wounds closed properly.

* * *

Molly sat in the bath thinking. A pile of clothes had arrived for both of them hours before, and so she could finally shed the blood stained ones. Not one of the designer dresses he'd sent was something that she would chose for herself. There was not a knit among them, and one was even made of some kind of thin gold and copper lamé. The sheer number of the clothes suggested that they planned to keep her for a while. If they were going to kill her, there would have been no point on spending that kind of money. But then, what was she doing here anyway?

It wasn't her choice. She had been kidnapped along with Sherlock. He had told her it might be dangerous, that people might press her about his death. She had helped him because he had asked her, and she could never say no to Sherlock.

She remembered the first time she saw him. She had gone into the lab to check on a test, and he was there chatting with Mike Stanford. She had frozen, mouth open until he had stared at her and she turned away blushing as she attempted to print out the results. Even so, her eyes kept finding him. He was the most attractive man that she had ever met.

She ran to the Morgue to tell Gordon, and he told her to ask him out. He said that life was too short, and the twenty-first century meant that women shouldn't wait for men to approach them. She seemed to see Sherlock everywhere, but she could never find the courage to approach him until after Gordon's death when he came in with a riding crop.

It must have been the presence of Gordon's body that gave her the courage to ask him out for coffee. He hadn't understood her, but she had asked, and after that, it just had seemed easier and easier to talk to him. And now, they might die together. She lowered herself below the water listening to the beat of her heart. What would happen to them? She didn't have a clue.


	6. Coma

The Engineer was talking on the phone when she arrived upstairs to dine. He was arguing so loudly that the words rang off the walls. Ivana rushed around to pull back her chair, and she sat down in front of her plate to wait.

She hadn't planned to leave Sherlock, but he had insisted that she gather any information that she could.

_Why should she? This isn't a game!_

Every step upstairs had made her a little more angry so that by the time she had reached her seat she was determined not to enjoy herself. She thought that anger might be a bit dangerous to show around a murder, but it was so much better than showing fear.

She had chosen her dress because it was the most conservative one that she had found, knee length and black with long sleeves. In the brighter light of the ballroom, however, she realized that the dress was not black, but a deep plum. She stared at the velvet sleeve as Ivana placed a bowl of soup in front of her, remembering how Connie Prince had said that plum was not her color as it would make her skin blanch. The phone clicked off and Molly looked up to notice golden eyes focused on her.

"Pardon me. I didn't mean to ignore you. I simply am having a bit of a disagreement with a subordinate."

"A disagreement?" Molly said. "About what?"

"About… well, perhaps this would be a good time to discuss your role here."

"My role? But I thought my role was as a prisoner."

"I can see how you might interpret things that way, but I had hoped that we might come to some sort of arrangement."

Molly put down her spoon. In school she had heard of young women who had come to arrangements with certain men. Her face went cold. "What kind of arrangement are you wanting?"

The man smiled at her over his wine glass. "Mr Holmes is physically incapacitated."

"That's because you shot him."

"True, but I do want him to work for me."

"Then, perhaps you shouldn't have shot him."

The Engineer put down his drink. "It seems to me that you would make an ideal liaison between the two of us. I could discuss my plans with you, and you could relay his suggestions to me."

"You could text him. It would be faster. Why do you need me?"

"Why, Miss Hooper, do you mind if I call you Molly?"

"Does it even matter what I say?"

"Thank you, Molly."

She frowned, biting the corner of her lip.

"It is true that my major goal was having Sherlock Holmes in my employ, but I wanted to spend time with you as well. No really, I've wanted to meet you, ever since James first mentioned you. He spoke of you often."

"Did he now?"

"Yes. He didn't think that Sherlock Holmes cared a whit about you, but I wasn't so sure."

"Oh really. What else did Jim say about me?"

"He told me how you broke up with him. He normally doesn't let his women break up with him. He's usually the one to leave, but he said that you did it so adorably, that he couldn't help but let you break his heart."

"His women? Did Moriarty make a habit of posing as the gay boyfriend?"

"Not necessarily gay. I'm curious though. What did you think of him?"

Molly looked up from her soup. "What do you mean, what did I think of him? He was pretending. Everything he said to me was a lie."

"I know, but… what was your impression of him. What kind of man did he seem to be to you?"

"He seemed...nice, a bit uncertain… surely this is not what you meant when you mentioned my role here."

"I'm sorry. I do have a habit of getting sidetracked. Ivana, the duck!"

The woman in blue brought out two plates of sliced duck sitting on an orange-brown sauce. It smelled amazing.

"I don't care much for duck myself, but it is one of my chef's specialties, and I do like to keep the staff happy."

Molly looked over at Ivana wondering if he did anything to keep her happy. She looked mortally afraid of the man. Molly sat up.

"What do you want from us?"

The man chewed his food and then took a sip of wine before answering.

"From you, my dear Molly, all I want is for us to get along better. I don't travel much myself, and I do appreciate company for dinner. From Sherlock, I'd like a few suggestions for the best way to ease some of my business difficulties. "

He pulled out a paper file and handed it to Ivana who ran it down the table to place in Molly's hand. Molly opened it to see a man's face and a number of closely typed pages.

"What is this?"

"A report on our competition."

"Competition?"

"Peter Saffron, runs a… pharmaceuticals distribution organization based in South America, and he has started to sell his wares here at a lower price than _Moriarty_ does."

"Isn't that just how businesses work?"

"Perhaps, although our business is a little more...cut throat than most. I want to know his weaknesses. I want to know how to keep our customers from switching to him. James always came up with the most... creative ways to dissuade others from attempting to undercut our markets."

"But why should we help you? What's in it for us? What will you give me for my services?"

"I would think that you would care to continue to have access to medicine."

"So if we don't work for you, you're going to threaten Sherlock's life? You're a psychopath!"

"No. I'm just an opportunist. If this Sherlock is even half as clever as James said he is, then I should be able to raise enough money to retire in a year, nine months at the most."

"You plan to keep us for nine months?"

"Unless you plan to turn down my offer," He said, malevolence radiating out of his words.

"I'll need to discuss this with Sherlock."

"Of course. You can tell me your decision tomorrow. Now, I have a wonderful chocolate torte for desert. Ivana?"

* * *

When she got downstairs she found Sherlock asleep. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the couch. It took nearly half an hour for her to notice the empty morphine bottle on the floor.

She rushed over to the bed and looked into Sherlock's dazed eyes. He was barely breathing. His fingernails had started to turn blue. She listened to his heart. All of his vital signs were incredibly weak. Molly wondered if she would ever hear his voice again.

As before, hammering on the door did no good. The guards pretended not to hear her. She contemplated giving him stimulants, but it might do more harm than good. She would just have to monitor him closely. She sat down and leaned against the bed.

 _'Sherlock, that bastard, what had he been thinking? If he ever wakes again, I will absolutely kill him! Or at least give him a firm talking to.'_ Molly thought as her eyes filled with tears.

She stayed by Sherlock's side all night, and the next day when they came for her she refused to leave his side. She had stashed the most important medicines under the bed in case they tried to retaliate by taking away the chest. Instead, they took away the couch, dumping all of the clothes onto the floor. They also removed the bathroom door.

It seemed such a petty punishment for refusing a meal, to take away her place to sleep and the thing that gave her a moment's privacy. At least they hadn't dragged her away from Sherlock. She continued checking Sherlock's vital signs every hour until exhaustion made her sleep.

The next day, she noticed Sherlock's breathing had returned to normal. He woke a few hours later and asked for help to reach the toilet.

Molly wiped the tears from her eyes and helped him up. When he was back in bed, with the sheet tucked around him. She restrained herself from slapping him.

"How could you do that, Sherlock? You could have died!"

"I knew what I was doing,"

"What were you doing? Trying to kill yourself?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I couldn't think when I was in so much pain. I just put myself into a little coma. I feel so much better now, although I could use a bit of a top off."

"A top off? I'm not letting you near the drugs again."

"About this file..." Sherlock said pulling the file on Peter Saffron out from under his pillow.

"Very interesting. He's cutting into their market. They can't be happy about that."

"Sherlock, you must promise me that you will never overdose..."

"Don't be tedious, Molly, we have work to do. Have you noticed what's interesting about this file?"

"Sherlock, you can't keep playing with your health."

"You're supposed to say, _'What's interesting about it, Sherlock?_ '."

"This is serious."

"Molly!"

"Alright. _What's interesting about it, Sherlock?_ "

"Why Molly, I'm glad you asked. The most interesting thing about this file is that it is a police file. See the numbers, and the label here? This file came from Scotland Yard. That means that whoever gave The Engineer this file had access to Scotland Yard. The Engineer was less than truthful when he said that he did not know who the assassins were. One of them is probably the person who stole this file. He is probably the one sent to kill Lestrade."

"Sherlock, you are avoiding the issue..."

"No, Molly. _You_ are avoiding it. We are being held prisoners by people who can murder us at any moment. It is in our best interest to play their game. I can tell that you've been playing it, by that duck sauce on your sleeve. The Engineer certainly enjoys your company."

"I didn't leave you," Molly said, her tears returning. "I didn't leave your side, not while you were sick. So he got angry and took away our door. He keeps asking me about you and James Moriarty. I think he's curious..."

"Good. As long as he's curious he has a reason to keep us around. You keep eating with him. Talk to him. Become his friend. We need to find as much as we can about this organization if I'm ever going to find the assassins they sent after John. Once we have a solid lead, then we can find a way to escape."

"But Sherlock, I'm not a spy. I can't do this."

"Yes you can. You have one great advantage."

"What's that?"

"You are easily overlooked."

"That's because I'm no good."

"Molly Hooper, you are the only person to have defeated James Moriarty, the most diabolical criminal mastermind on the planet. You saved my life, and because of you, I have a chance to save my friends. Moriarty underestimated you. The Engineer will do the same.

"Now go away, I need to go to my Mind Palace and consider this Saffron problem. Wear the green satin. It goes better with your complexion than that...puce thing you're wearing." Sherlock made a face and then lay back, closing his eyes, and placing his hands against his lip as if in prayer.

It would soon be dinner time. She needed to change. For some reason, she couldn't keep from smiling.


	7. Selfish

"He watched Glee with you, honestly?"

"He even knew the words."

The Engineer laughed. "I wished I could have seen it. I knew he liked to dance. I once saw him dancing around a room. It was hilarious. There was this pool of blood, and he slid right through it… oh, pardon me. This probably isn't the best topic for dinner conversation."

"No, I don't think so." Molly said looking suspiciously at the pool around her steak.

"I hope it isn't too early to talk business. Sherlock's last idea is working like a dream. Who would have thought that wrapping the drugs in foil paper like candy would make it more desirable. Branding works. I don't know why we hadn't thought of it before? So, how is Sherlock doing? Any better?"

"Actually, I'm afraid he's worse. He has an infection. His wound went untreated for quite a long time before I finally got the correct medicine to fight it. I'm going to need some more antibiotics."

"Antibiotics. I'll see to it. Ivana, brandy."

Ivana brought a decanter over and poured a bit into his glass. Molly took the opportunity to stretch.

"Is your chair uncomfortable? I can get you another"

"No, it's just my back. It's stiff. Sleeping on the floor can do that to you."

"You shouldn't have to sleep on the floor."

"You took the couch. Where do you think I should sleep? On the desk?"

"I only meant, that the bed is quite big enough for two."

Molly imagined it. Taking off her clothes. Lying next to Sherlock on the bed. His bare legs touching hers. His shirt open as he turned his head on the pillow to look into her eyes.

"The floor is fine, unless you'd care to give me back the couch."

The Engineer wiped his mouth. "Molly, can we talk frankly."

"What about?"

"About taking advantage of the opportunities you are offered."

"What do you mean? What opportunities?"

"You asked me once what I was willing to give you for your services."

"Yes, and you said that you would give me what I needed to keep Sherlock alive."

"I know, that seemed heartless at the time, but I didn't feel that you were ready for me to tell you what I am really offering you."

"What are you offering me?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"You already told me that. You'll give me medicine..."

"No, I'm not talking about his body. I'm offering you his heart."

"What?"

"It's what you really want. What you have been wanting all this time, the love of Sherlock Holmes, and I can help you get it."

"What are you talking about? I never said I wanted..."

"Of course you did. It's obvious that you admire his body. You want him, but even the great Irene Adler failed to bed him. Moriarty used to call him, The Virgin. He said that he must have known that with his addictive personality, once he allowed himself to indulge in his passions, he would never be able to stop.

"You've had every opportunity to turn away and look for easier prey, but you kept returning, doing him favors until he asked you for the biggest favor of all, to help him fake his death. It is incredibly risky. You could lose your job. You could lose your life. That's why I know that it is his love you want, not just sex. It is your greatest desire, and I will give it to you, if you will give your loyalty to me, instead of him."

As Molly walked slowly down the steps to return to the room, she though of what The Engineer had told her. Of how the couch, the missing door, the delayed medicines, even her upstairs meals had all been part of the plan. Everything that had happened so far had been done to make Sherlock dependent on her.

"Love doesn't come in a vacuum," he'd said. "Do you think that Sherlock Holmes would even have talked to you if he hadn't needed your help? I can make sure that he needs you. The only way that he will get the care he needs will be through you. You will feed his body and give him work to feed his mind. You will mend his injuries. Any desire he wants will be channeled through you. Any luxury he gets will be given by you. You will be there to help him dress, help him bathe, share his bed. I can keep him close to you. Soon, he may even get jealous of your time with me. He will ask you about your feelings for me. Then, it will only be a matter of time before he admits his affection for you."

"And what happens if I don't cooperate with you?"

"He has to be planning his escape by now. If you escape, he will leave you behind and go his own way. Perhaps he will die. In either case, you will never have him, and he will never want you."

"I don't want him to want me."

"Liar! I can see the way you flush just thinking about it. And it has already begun. Even now he is growing more dependent on you. He wouldn't let anyone touch him before, but _you_ can touch him with ease. If I am not mistaken, he has already offered to share his bed with you, and if you play your cards right, you could be his first. Or he could escape, and remain The Virgin, leaving you forever unfulfilled."

Molly covered her face, but he put his arm on her shoulder and whispered into her ear.

"All I ask is that you tell me how he plans to escape. Only that. Tell me, and I will make sure that you can keep him close all of the time. I am your true ally. Don't let your pride stand in the way of true love."

* * *

Molly entered the room and found Sherlock drawing on a sheet of paper. He smiled up at her, and began animatedly talking about his plans. She noticed then how different he was from the rude and guarded man he used to be with her.

"Molly, come and see! I have a plan for the Moroccan gun runner. Since he refuses to give them the information until he is safely back in Morocco, we make him believe he is in Morocco. They build a box. Inside it is dressed exactly like his headquarters in Morocco. Then, once he's given them the information, it falls apart."

Sherlock showed her a folded paper box. He touched one side and it fell flat.

"A simple push at the right wall and the entire structure will fall down revealing that he's still in London! With the threat of retaliation looming, he will have no choice but to cooperate. What do you think? It's Amazing, right! Molly, you're supposed to be agreeing with me. Molly, did something go wrong? He did buy the story about me having an infection didn't he? Molly?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Nothing's wrong, I just… I need to clean up a bit, can you look away while I change?"

Sherlock waved his hand idly and looked back down at his plans. Molly went in the bathroom and washed her face. In the mirror, she could see Sherlock smiling to himself. The Engineer was right. He would let her sleep in his bed if she asked. She knew that he would. She would have to make a point never to ask.

She took a sheet and pillow and went to the furthest corner of the room to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she imagined Sherlock touching her, holding her, wanting her. No matter how hard she denied it, she couldn't escape her selfish heart.


	8. Red Riding Hood

Molly sat ramrod straight in her chair. She sat right next to The Engineer now instead of across the long table. Dinner had not yet been served, and she began to realize how much of a comfort it was to have something to distract her while she was in his company. His too bright eyes seemed dangerously snake-like up close.

"You wanted to tell me something?" he said with a smile threatening to sprout on his lips.

"I'll help you," Molly said. "I agree to tell you Sherlock's escape plans, but I'll want some things in exchange."

"What things?"

"Information. Sherlock can't be stopped by a simple lock on a door, and he won't be satisfied with evasions. He'll want information about the members of your organization, and if he doesn't get it here, he will look elsewhere. If I am to be loyal to you, I'll need a bit of trust in return."

The Engineer sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "What do you want to know?"

"How is Moriarty organized? You say Moran is the head. Why have I never seen him? Are there departments?"

The engineer laughed. "It's not like we all work in the same building and have tea breaks together. There are members, and agents. Most agents have never even seen James Moriarty in the flesh. They are hired remotely and paid by Swiss bank account. They have no loyalty to the organization. They just are hired as needed. Our members, on the other hand, cooperate. James recruited them, but we have never all met in person. We don't even use our names. James gave us each a special code name."

"So James Moriarty named you _'The Engineer_ '?"

"You don't think that I would have given myself that name, do you? James just picked it because he likes trains."

"And these members. What are they like?"

"The members all have power bases of their own. They are celebrities, blackmailers, slavers, we cooperate, sharing expertise as needed, but most of the time, we never meet."

Molly took a deep breath, and then asked, "Who are the members of Moriarty?"

"Don't you think that you ought to give me those plans that Sherlock made for me now? There is plenty of time to continue this conversation after dinner."

Molly passed the folder over to him, and then looked toward the door. Ivana still hadn't come back from the kitchen. The Engineer leafed through the designs Sherlock had written, holding the sheets up to read his tiny handwriting. His smile grew as he read. He looked up and slapped the table.

"Brilliant. This box plan is brilliant! You know, I begin to understand a bit of what James was saying about him. This is both creative and cruel. A bit of an effort to make, perhaps, but they don't call me _The Engineer_ for nothing. If it can be found, I can find it. If it can be imagined, I can build it!" He said gleefully.

Suddenly Molly remembered the hooded man by the flower shop.

_"I'm a bit of a pro at finding things."_

And now.

_"If it can be found... I can find it."_

Molly stared at the man. He was lost in the plans, a large smile on his face. Her voice was quiet but sure when she said, "You lied just then. James Moriarty didn't come up with the names. You did."

He turned away from the paper. "Excuse me?"

"You said that James picked your name for no reason, but that's not true is it? You must have at least suggested the name, otherwise why the little catch phrase you just sang? You didn't just come up with that, and it has nothing to do with trains. You picked the name _Engineer_."

The man lowered the sheet to the table.

"You must have also lied about the money. You said that you needed money to retire, but since I have been here, you've never mentioned how much you're making or how much you've spent. Sherlock's plan is incredibly expensive for the return you'd get, but you don't care. You like it because it's elegant. You love this stuff as much as he did, if not more. That's why you need Sherlock. Because without James, you can't do it. You're the Engineer, the builder, you can make anything, but you need someone else to come up with the plan."

A calculating look came over The Engineer's face. Then he smiled. "Touché. You are correct. I never planned to retire. I told you that to keep you complacent until my plans were complete, but they are now, so there is no need to hold back the truth."

His voice had changed. All the time she had known him, the man had talked in a formal RP accent. Now, his voice had a decidedly Irish tang. He put his hands behind his head and sat back in his chair, and Molly realized that the man she had dined with all this time was an act. The man in the hoodie was the real Engineer.

"I was one of the first that Séamus recruited when he decided to build this organization. I was working up in Belfast, not far from that Stationmaster brother of his. I had a name there, The Red Bag strangler. The police thought I was a serial killer, but I didn't kill people for pleasure. I just didn't like them staring at me. That's why they never found me. The profiles didn't work. Séamus said that I wasn't living up to my full potential in that backwater of a place. And he was right. We've done so much since we started this together. We've made alliances with people all over the world. We've had clients at the highest levels, and we've partnered with some of the most powerful criminals out there. If they were valuable enough, we asked them to 'Join the Fold' so to speak, and they became part of _Moriarty_. We were on the rise, We had the UK and Europe, and we were poised to to take over Asia when he met The Oracle and it all went to Hell."

"The Oracle? Whose he?"

"She is a crazy old bat that lives on an island. He went to talk with her and he came back... _changed_. He didn't care about the money anymore, or the power. That's when he came up with the plan to steal the crown jewels. And that's when he suddenly became obsessed again with Sherlock Holmes."

"Again."

"Yeah. I never could see the point for his game in the first place. So what if they'd met as kids and Sherlock didn't remember him. That was no reason to give up good business and threaten our bad name. At first, I thought he just wanted to get a leg over. Maybe he just wanted to be acknowledged. We went along with it, because that's what Séamus was like, always playing games to keep himself amused. What didn't make sense was him killing himself. There's no profit in that, no challenge. Séamus did tend to get a little moody at times, but... I don't know why he did it. I thought, seeing as you were friends with both of them, perhaps you might know."

"So that's why you kept asking about Jim, you wanted to know if I knew anything about his death?"

"I was curious. Thought you might know something. And, I needed someone to keep Sherlock Holmes alive and distracted so that that imaginative mind of his wouldn't find a way to kill me. I needed someone he cared about."

"He doesn't care about me."

"The others were all taken. And though he may not love you yet, he certainly likes you well enough. He trusts you. And when I tell him that I will kill you if he doesn't continue working for me, then he will believe me. Oh yes, he will."

"You are a psychopath. You said you weren't, but you are. You're evil!"

"So we're down to calling names, are we? In that case, did I ever tell you James Moriarty's name for you? He called you _Little Red Riding Hood_.

"You see, Séamus liked fairy stories, but he always rewrote them to suit himself. In his story, Red Riding Hood didn't go into the forest to see her grandmother. She went there to see the wolf. She wanted to get eaten, you see. She was a repressed little thing, and she felt that if the wolf devoured her, if he ripped her flesh open, then it would release her soul. You like chasing wolves, don't you Molly? I have it on good authority that they're the only ones that can get you going."

Molly didn't remember getting to her feet.

"So what wolf were you expecting to catch, love? Him or me?"

Molly ran across the room to the door. She flung it open, crashing into Ivana's cart and overturning her silver tureens as she rushed down the hall. The guards ran after her as she flew down the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

Once inside, she threw herself face down on the bed.

"Molly, are you all right? Did you get the information? Did he believe you when you told him that you would betray me?"

Molly hugged the pillow, hiding her face from him.

"Molly?" Sherlock reached out his hand and awkwardly attempted to stroke her hair. "Are you upset? I always meant to tell you, I just never got a chance to say... remember that time when I told The Engineer that you meant nothing to me? Well actually..."

"Sherlock...Shut up, now!" Molly said. Then she sat up and flung her arms around Sherlock's neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "Please Sherlock, no questions. Just...hold me."

And Sherlock did hold her as she cried out all of her tears.


	9. Rescue

"Wake up, wake up!" Sherlock whispered. "It's time."

Molly opened her eyes and yawned. "Sherlock, what is it?"

"Get your shoes on, it's time to go. Wrap that blanket around you. It's bound to be a bit chilly outside."

Molly noticed then that Sherlock was not only standing up, he had shaved and dressed. He even had his shoes and socks on. "What's going on?" Molly asked.

"It's almost time, we have to..." There was a click and the door opened. "Just follow my lead."

A woman walked into the room wearing a janitor's costume. She nodded at them and then turned around and left the room. Sherlock followed. Molly pulled the blanket around her shoulders and followed Sherlock, stepping over the bodies of the men who had been her guards.

They walked up the stairs, but when she attempted to walk down the hall as she always did, Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her through a door to the left. She was in a small grey hallway that exited into what looked like a laundry. The woman reached into a bin and pulled out two coveralls. They put them on, and then walked out of the room and down the hall. She could hear the sound of people talking in the kitchens. They passed quickly by and out of the back door.

The cold air felt wonderful after so many days inside. She took a moment to enjoy the way her cheeks stung. Sherlock was hobbling a bit when he walked. The woman led them behind some topiary and bent down to brush the leaves off of a ladder that she had hidden there. She propped it up against the wall and motioned for them to climb.

Molly put a leg on the ladder, but Sherlock pulled her back. "You're not going that way. I am."

"What do you mean?" Molly whispered. "Aren't we going together?"

"You can't. The police are on their way to arrest The Engineer. They can't find me here."

"But, where are you going? Who is she? I don't understand what we're doing here?"

"We're escaping. Isn't it obvious?"

"But I haven't told you everything he said, about Moriarty and their organization."

"It will have to wait. The police are already here."

She noticed it then, the sound of a siren in the distance getting closer.

"They've found him a bit before we were ready."

"We?"

"My brother and I. I've been sending him messages through the plans I had the engineer make. Three days ago, he got in contact with me, and arranged an escape, but we had to move up the time because the police traced your kidnappers ahead of schedule. They'll be here any moment. You need to go meet them."

"But Sherlock, where are you going?"

"From what I learned from the files he sent me, and what he told you, I've got a good lead on the assassins. I've got to go now. They can't find me here. If anyone knows I'm alive…."

"I know. John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade are in danger."

"Lestrade is fine now. My brother already told him about the spy in Scotland yard."

"But… you're leaving now! It's so sudden."

"Molly, there's no time." He started up the ladder, and then stepped down and put a hand on her shoulder "As soon as I am back in London, I will come see you, Molly. I promise." She looked up into eyes that were turning blue in the early morning light. Then he turned away, hopping one-legged up the ladder before flopping over the wall to safety.

The woman took the ladder down then and hid it, before leading her to the high stone wall that led to the front lawn. By now, she could see the red of the police lights flashing over the top of the wall. The woman pointed to a small wooden door.

"Tell the police you were a prisoner, but don't mention Mr. Holmes."  
"Of course I won't mention him."

"When they ask who else was in the room. Tell them it was a homeless man that you let everyone believe was Sherlock Holmes. Tell them that the man died of his wounds."

"But..."

"It's time, go!" she said pushing Molly through the door and closing it behind her.

Molly stood on the edge of the front lawn. It was a pretty neighborhood with expensive houses, and a curb lined with police cars. She walked toward the car farthest from the front door. At the entry way, an inspector was showing his warrant card to the butler. She walked up to a police woman who stood outside of her car.

"I'm sorry Miss, you can't come this way. Police business."

"I'm Molly Hooper."

"It doesn't matter who you are. I can't let you ..."

"I said, I'm Molly Hooper, the person whose been kidnapped. I escaped."

There was a flurry of activity then as people surrounded her. The police woman called in for orders, and before long she was placed in a car, and whizzed down to the police station where a medic checked her out before sitting her down in a room with a host of officers who listened to her story.

Greg Lestrade entered the room halfway through her tale of a man obsessed with Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. She told of a super fan who believed that Sherlock wasn't dead, and who thought that he had captured him. She thought that Greg would see right through her story, but he seemed to buy it. She had got much better at lying.

"We found her purse and some clothes in his house, but he claims that she was his guest. His lawyers are here, and they plan to fight the claim of murder and kidnapping. Without the body, I don't see how we're going to get it to stick?"

"What about Joe?" Molly said. "The man that he shot in the warehouse."

"Did you witnessed him shoot this man?"

"No, but he admitted to shooting him."

"Your word against his. He'll simply deny it."

"Then can't you link this murder to the ones he did in Belfast. You do know he's the Red Bag Strangler, don't you?"

The room was completely silent as every eye focused on her. Then suddenly the room was filled with noise as everyone seemed to talk at once. The door opened and people ran out as Greg insisted that they call the PSNI and pull the records for comparison. In minutes, she was in the room with only one attendant and no tea.

Once the excitement died down, someone told her that she could go home. As she walked down the hallway, she passed Ivana in handcuffs. Their met eyes for a moment, and then she was led away.

Molly stood in the lobby with her newly recovered purse and phone, wondering where she should go. They had told her to go home, but the flat where she lived, didn't really feel like home to her. She hadn't had a home since her father died.

Greg saved her from the decision by offering to drive her. He was grinning as he led her out of the station and toward his car.

"You really saved the day, Molly. The body in the abandoned building was a perfect match to the MO of the Red Bag Strangler, and since we had already connected him to the crime scene, I think it will be a relatively straightforward case. I talked to some really happy officers in Belfast. They finally were able to close a case after seven years! The red bag killer has been bagged."

Greg opened the door for her and she climbed into his car. Then he entered and fastened his seat belt. "So, Molly. Where do you want to go? Your apartment?"

"Actually, Greg, I'm sort of concerned about my cat. I think he might be dead."

"You mean Toby? I've got him at my place."

"You do! But how did you…?"

"I went by your work the morning after we met in the market. You had promised to help me with a case, but you'd forgotten to give me your number. I got it from your work colleagues but you never answered your phone, so I went to your flat. That's when I noticed that you hadn't been home. The cat had knocked over its water, and was making the most horrible noises. I decided it would be best to take him to my place until we could find out what happened to you."

"So Toby is all right?"

"Yes, he's fine."

"Can you take me to him now?"

"Of course," Lestrade said turning the car around as he started to drive to his flat.

* * *

As soon as she walked through his door, Toby ran toward her and butted her leg hard with his head. She picked him up and hugged him tight. He permitted this for a moment before scratching her and jumping down to the ground again. Molly was so happy that she started to cry.

She spent the night in Greg Lestrade's guest bedroom, lying under a football blanket with Toby sleeping on her chest. She felt content for the first time in ages.

After her Father died, Toby was all that she had to come home to. Starting tomorrow, she would work on making a real home for herself. She would find a nice man, someone who wasn't a psychopath, get married and have a family. It wasn't too late for her. There were plenty of nice men out there if she looked.

She wondered where Sherlock was tonight. Was he even still in the country? Would he remember to take his pills? Did he have a place to return to? A place that he called home? Part of her knew that she would always worry about Sherlock, even when she had a family of her own. She smiled, and closed her eyes.

The Engineer's plan had been to make Sherlock love her. Of course, it had failed. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the kind of person who fell in love. And yet, there was a bond that formed between people who shared adversity, a bond of trust that couldn't be faked. In time, Sherlock might realize that the bond they shared was one of love. She hoped he would, someday.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the kind of person who fell in love. She, however, was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and she would be for the rest of her life.


End file.
